The Royal Bank of Stories
Philip Bradbury
Published by Philip Bradbury at Smashwords
Copyright 2010 Philip Bradbury
Typed (with two fingers) by Philip Bradbury
Typeset (with brilliance and majesty) by Philip Bradbury
Front cover designed (with flair and imagination) by Philip Bradbury
First Edition: December, 1999
Second Edition: December 2002
All rights reserved. Although this book is copyright and you're not supposed to reproduce it in any form, I know that some of you will. As a sculptor of words, I'm well aware that it's so easy for anyone to pretend these words are theirs and receive acclaim for that. If you can live with that then, please, go ahead.
All I can do is ask that you treat the spirit of these words with respect, treat me with respect and enjoy the product thereof. I can live with that.
With Love, Philip Bradbury
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Contents
We Are Not Alone … Not Ever
The Golden Belly-Button
The Elephant
The Gnus
More Bloody Words
The Soft Man
The Hard Man
Little Bear
The Silence
Recalling The Voices
The Pink Monkey
Sunsets
Mountain-Top Talking
Asharif The Boatman
The Grandmother
The Wimp
Friends And Lovers
The Only Story Ever Told
The Flow
The Invaders
Miss Conception
The Loss
Three Wise Women
The Builder Boy
The Kingfisher Story
Reopen Your Heart
A Body Of Questions
Separating The Trees
The Talking Sea
The Phoenix
Changes
The Old System
Reflecting On Life
The Other Golden Belly Button
Teller Of Tales
Books By Philip Bradbury
About Philip Bradbury
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We Are Not Alone … Not Ever
I used to be really intelligent and then I went to school.
I knew what God was, for we often had chats and I learned a lot. Then they told me God was an old, bearded man, sitting on a cloud, checking credentials. I had got it all wrong.
I knew that I had been born with a particular purpose in this lifetime. Then they told me it was my duty to get a respectable, well-paying job and to obey the rules. I had got it wrong again.
I knew that trees, the sea, mountains and all other natural beings were intelligent as I had often spoken to them and found them to be unerringly correct. Then, at school, I was told that humans were the only intelligent life force and that all other things were either dumb or without any feelings or thoughts at all. I had got it wrong yet again.
In fact, I got it wrong so many times that I doubted my own intelligence and my ability to be able to know anything at all. With a good dose of self-doubt, I left school with the knowing that all the answers needed in life were to be found in others, in experts. And yet, all the while, I even doubted them and the world was an unsafe place - I doubted myself and others and there was nowhere else to turn. I turned outward and trusted the wisdom of others for a while and when they were wrong, I beat myself up for being dumb.
Then I had a mid-life opportunity (not crisis) and started to turn inward. Well, what a shock I got! What I found inside were the same things I had when I was a child - dumb and innocent. A little frightened, at first, at this return to immaturity, to childhood, my self-belief was slow to develop. But once on the trail of inner knowing, there's no turning back and I returned to my God, the trees, the mountains, the birds, my own inner knowing and my other Whispering Teachers for the things I needed. And that's all I needed. And that's part of the reason I started teaching - I realised that I could not teach anyone anything. I rejoiced in being able to help people remember what they had forgotten and to listen to their inner whisperings.
In my reminding I found, to my dismay, but not surprise, that very few people trusted in their knowing. This was a struggle for many students as I would not tell them the answers - I'd just show them how to find them. However, when they "got it", they really got it - they never forgot again and their self-worth and self-knowing rose together. And I rejoiced.
And so I dared to put down some of my knowings in the hope that you may see the reflection of some of your own knowings, beauty and greatness in them. Please don't doubt yourself for we need all that you are, all that you know and all that you have to give.
Just know, Dear Friend, that there is not a single second in your life that you need to feel alone. Whether it be a friend, a book, an incident, Mother Earth or one of her beings, your Whispering Teacher is always closer than you imagine. And know, also, that the greatest Teacher is the Goddess/God within, the all-knowing, all-caring being that you are.
The other little discovery I have made is that, while I have five different intellectual qualifications to my name, my best learning has not come from technical or intellectual books and teachers. My favourite learning gifts have come from life - experiences, friends and nature. My greatest teachers have been very ordinary people, and Mother Earth, who teach by their very being. So beware! You are teaching someone at this very moment, and every other moment of your being. Sometimes the student is you and sometimes it is someone else. May all your teachings be positive ones - and ones of love.
I wish you well on your journey.
##########
The Golden Belly-Button
Many, many years ago ... so long ago, in fact, I forget what happened. So I will tell you another. A long, long time ago when I do remember, in the olden days when men were men and so were women, a beautiful baby was born. His parents were so proud and happy, but then they noticed that he had a shining golden belly-button. They were shocked and confused and so were the doctors, but the doctors always were, so that didn't matter. They gave him all sorts of tests and looked in his mouth and under his arm-pits. They were all there (his mouth and armpits) so they decided that everything was in working order and his parents were told to shut-up, that their baby was perfect and the golden belly-button didn't exist.
They did shut-up because they were too embarrassed to tell anyone, but the golden belly-button continued to exist. When the boy was old enough to look down, he saw his golden belly-button and marvelled at the wonderful sight. But his parents made such a fuss about it and wouldn't talk about it, he started to worry. This continued and as he grew, he worried more and more about it and wouldn't let anyone see it. He wouldn't go swimming or sunbathing and bathed under a towel so the light-bulb couldn't see. It got so bad that he would only get changed in the dark so that he couldn't see himself and everyone wondered why he wore different coloured socks and his shirt inside out.
He wanted to get rid of his stupid belly-button and when he was old enough to leave home he went in search of someone who could help him. He went to a belly-button doctor who pondered the problem for a day or three and then rubbed methylated spirits on it to dissolve it. But that only dribbled down and dissolved his pubic hair and he had a naked willy for two months.
Then he went to a Maori Kaumatua or old man, who said, "When I take out your golden screw, you never have to poo." He thought of the time he would save not having to go to the toilet and that would be great. So the Kaumatua talked to Papatuanuku the Earth Mother, Ranginui the Sky Father and Tangaroa the God of the Sea. Then he put down the phone and boiled up the gall-bladder of a Hapuka fish and the left eye of a Kereru bird. He rubbed the mixture on but the golden belly-button was still there and he had to go to the toilet really bad so that didn't work.
So he went to Australia to see an Aboriginal Kadaiche Man who said he would make him famous. "When I take out your golden screw, everyone gonna say 'How do you do'". He thought it would be good being famous with no golden belly-button. The Kadaiche Man lit a fire and stirred up spinafex sap with a waliru feather, played his digeridoo and said some magic words - "Goo dubba mee awe kutu wanna" which meant "I don' know what to do with dis stupid button, but I hope dis mixture make it go rotten." But the golden belly-button just smiled back and said, "You silly old man, I'm not going nowhere," and that didn't work.
Then he went to America to see a Cherokee Indian Medicine Man whose name was Bent Feather From The One-Eyed Eagle With The Head-Ache Coz A Fast Running Buffalo Stood On Him and he had an extra large cheque-book so his signature would fit. He looked deeply into the golden belly-button, almost drowned and when he had dried himself he lit a fire and burned a cedar smudge and his finger and said "Ouch!" He asked for the eye-sight of the eagle and the strength of the bear and the speed of the cougar but they said, "Not today Man. Don't you know it's our day off." So that didn't work.
He went to many, many other lands and no one could help - the stupid belly-button just sat there smiling and shining. He came to Ireland where he met a Wicca, a wise woman, who said, "So you're the twit with the golden belly-button." And so he left that place.
He was very sad and upset and all he could think of was home and his stupid belly-button. He went back to New Zealand to see his parents but they still wouldn't talk about it. He got very depressed and wanted to shoot himself but he pointed the gun the wrong way and shot 3 chooks. Feeling really sad he went wandering in the bush for 2 days and got lost. He eventually found himself but still didn't know where he was and sat down on a log to cry. After a time he wiped his eyes and realised that a beautiful girl was sitting next to him.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
He told her of all his troubles and this took 61/2 days and he got hungry. When he had finished his story and his stomach stopped rumbling, she said she knew how to get rid of his golden belly-button. She told him that her remedy was unusual but if he believed her, it would work. She was so beautiful and looked so honest and caring he was prepared to believe.
"At the next full moon you must go down to the beach at sunset," she said. "Strip off your clothes and lie on your back on the sand. Do not move till sunrise, and your golden belly-button will be gone."
Then she vanished.
The next full moon he did as she said and lay naked on the beach and waited. He tried to sleep but couldn't so the Sand-Man came down to sprinkle sleep in his eyes, missed and biffed it in his mouth and it took 10 minutes to spit the stupid stuff out. Eventually, he did go to sleep and at midnight a beautiful golden fairy slid down a moon-beam and landed softly on his tummy. She got a golden screw-driver out of her Reebok shoe and unscrewed the golden belly-button. She put the golden belly-button and the golden screw-driver in the Nike bag between her wings and slid silently back up the moon-beam.
At sunrise he awoke and looked down to see that his golden belly-button had gone. He leapt up, full of joy, and his bum fell off.
##########
The Elephant
When a man unsheathes his pen,
The whole world knows what he's doing next.
He opens his soul and reveals his secrets,
In every paragraph and word of text.
Some call him stupid, some say brave,
But the two are the self-same thing, you see,
For stupid is what other people do,
And brave is the same damned thing, done by me.
Like the elephant that towers above the rest,
Not afraid to stand out, be seen and teach us,
This tower of strength, this determined plodder,
Is also the gentlest and kindest of creatures.
Writing a book is a long and lonely journey,
Plodding on alone, self-doubts and many restarts.
But forever is a long time, I know,
That your words will live and touch our hearts.
Many see writers as aloof, sure and intellectual,
But I see you as brave and tireless, beyond hours.
I thank you for your great message, your story,
And your inspiration of strength, oh brother of ours.
(Written to David Gau-Ghan on his 40th birthday, a week before his first book, "The Blue Star", was printed - published by the famous Bradbury Corporation LLP)
##########
The Gnus
Once upon a time, in the land of Great Creatures, there lived a family of Gnus. Mother Gnu had served up a delicious, hot dinner (badger steaks with prairie grass salad and thistle nuts) and called everyone in to eat. Father Gnu and Little Boy Gnu immediately came in, licking their lips, but Little Girl Gnu was nowhere to be found.
"Oh, no!" said Little Boy Gnu as he rushed from the table, "I bet that Horrible Old Troll has got her. I'll fix him!"
Certain that Little Boy Gnu would handle the Horrible Old Troll, Mother and Father Gnu started eating. However, when no one had come back by the time they had finished their first course, Mother Gnu began to worry that the Horrible Old Troll had got both her children - she decided to see what had happened to them. Confident that his wife could handle the Horrible Old Troll, Father Gnu started on the delicious dessert of deep-fried dragon-flies, candied trout tongue and pureed turtle tails. As he lapped the last luscious lashings of the liquid with his languorous, licking tongue, his limpid, luminous eyes lingered on his wife's lovely, 'luptuous photo, while he wondered if she, too, had been got by the Horrible Old Troll. He lowed lovingly and lumbered leisurely out the door, down to the bridge, where the Horrible Old Troll got him too.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the end of the gnus. And now for the weather …
So, what's the moral of the story? You can choose from:
1.The good gnus always end up as bad news,
2.Mind your own business, eat your dinner or you'll become someone else's dinner,
3.Work together rather than leaving the messy jobs to the little people,
4.Maybe horrible old people are actually really nice, when you get to know them, and, when you do, you won't want to go home,
5.If you want to buy a gnu's property, employ a troll for your real-estate salesman,
6.No gnus is not good news,
7.Who cares about the weather when the news is all bad,
8.Learn from others' misfortunes,
9.Trolls need feeding and/or company too, or
10.Who cares?
##########
More Bloody Words
Tony wasn't the biggest boy in class but he soon realized that winning was not about size but action and intent - if you went in first, with enough fury and gestures and with absolute certainty of winning, the fight was yours. And so a fighter he became, with every success proving (yet again) his was the only way.
Peter, a bigger and stronger boy, had a different inclination and tended to win his fights by a hundred yards. Aggression and violence repelled his very being, his stomach churned and his legs took him from the arena before he knew what was happening.
The story of how these two boys came to understand each other's approach is interesting but that they swapped roles for a time is more intriguing. It probably started when they had to recite poetry in class and Peter chose his favourite poet, Spinafex John, a gentle and philosophic man. One phrase stuck in Tony's mind and annoyed the hell out of him:
In the quiet waiting-room of your mind,
There's none to see but your own gentle self.
Why it annoyed him so much he couldn't tell but, somehow, that type of crap got right up his nose. At lunch time he confronted Peter with it:
"What the hell is that sort of stuff supposed to mean? All those words telling you nothing about nuttin'."
"Well … I liked them," stammered Peter, anticipating a blow from some direction.
"I didn't. They're just a pile of horse-shit, saying nothing," said Tony, plumping himself down beside Peter. "Why don't they write about real things? You know, stories about things that really happen."
"The Waiting Room is a kind of story, a story about what happens in our mind," said Peter, surreptitiously packing up his lunch and looking for an exit path. "It's a story that belongs to everyone if you want to look into the depth of the words."
"'Depth of the words', what crap!" asserted Tony. "You don't 'look into words'. They tell you things, things that are more bloody useful than your rubbish."
"Yes, I suppose some words do tell a story", mused Peter. "But some don't - they simply open your mind for you to discover your own story." He wasn't quite sure what he was saying, this 14 year old boy, but his own words felt comforting. And right, somehow.
"And what the hell's that all supposed to mean?" demanded Tony. "All this 'discover your own story' stuff? You're as bad as your poet - pretty phrases telling you bull-shit nothing!"
"I guess if you can't feel the words, if they have no meaning for you, then they don't," said Peter, feeling strangely more relaxed as Tony's tension grew. "If they mean nothing, then let them go - they aren't for you."
"What do you mean 'let them go'! I can't get the silly buggers out of my head now!" blurted Tony. "Once they're in there, they fly round like a bloody egg-beater. What'd you have to say them for anyway?"
"Because I liked them," explained Peter. "And I thought some others might like them too."
"Well I didn't and they're annoying the hell out of me!" said Tony, beating a fist into a palm.
"Well let them go then."
"I bloody can't," exploded Tony, leaping up. "You bloody stuck them in here and you can bloody well get them out!"
Peter was stunned to silence and others quickly moved away. This aggressive stance could only mean one outcome.
"Well, what are you going to do?" Tony demanded.
"I ... well … I'm not sure what I can do," pleaded Peter. I don't know how to take words out of people's heads."
"You'd better think of something pretty quick or you're for it!"
"Perhaps we could …"
"Not we. You," retorted Tony. "You started this."
A moment of silence followed, a moment Peter felt was large enough to be filled by his entire life but which may not have been longer than the tick of a clock. In this desperate moment, a knowing filled his entire being and he instantly knew there was an alternative to running, an alternative he hadn't conceived of before.
"Tony," he said with a new voice that came from his belly, "I thought you were a fighter. And now you want me to do your fighting for you."
Tony's upraised hand froze in mid-air and his silence was almost audible.
"You'll fight anyone, big or small, yet you can't face a battle with a few little words."
"What … what are you saying?" asked Tony meekly.
"I'm not sure," said Peter. "I'm just puzzled how quickly your fighting spirit departs. This poetry must seem to be an immense opponent. Perhaps we can tackle this together."
"I don't need any bloody help!"
"Great!" said Peter. "Your fighting spirit is back!"
"But how do I get them out of my head?" asked Tony, slumping down on the seat beside Peter.
"I'm not quite sure," said Peter. "Perhaps you first need to ask yourself if the words are really for you in some way. If they weren't they mightn't bug you so much."
"Maybe," mumbled Tony, after a moment's silence.
"Maybe," repeated Peter. "Is that a 'yes' or a 'no'?"
"Maybe, maybe not."
"Let's just pretend that your maybe is a 'yes'. If so, why would that be?" asked Peter.
"All this silly 'peace of mind' stuff," said Tony, quietly. "It's not real … it's not possible."
"Spinafex John had it, I have it sometimes, so why not you?"
"You can't, you just can't be that happy. Everyone's worried about something," said Tony.
"Yes, I get worried about things, but things don't worry me," said Peter, a little mystified by his own words.
"More stupid words meaning nuttin'," said Tony, exasperated. "Can't you say something helpful?"
Not quite understanding the meaning of his previous words, Peter was, momentarily, stumped for a reply. Then, out of the mist of his knowingness, a string of words appeared: "Any worry I feel comes from inside, not from things or people outside. It's quite nice, really, for I can control inside things - outside things I can't."
"But I only get angry when other people are stupid," explained Tony.
"Maybe, maybe not."
"What are you saying?" asked Tony, feeling something stirring inside.
"Maybe your anger is really like mine and comes from inside," suggested Peter. "Maybe you're already angry inside and you only feel it when someone else pulls it out …"
Tony was stunned to silence.
Peter wasn't sure what to say next but wanted to put Tony at ease: "If you know you can start your own anger or worry then you also know you can stop it. Other people are really helpful in showing us what's really inside and I thank them for that."
There was a moment's silence while Tony felt a new sensation slowly rising up inside - a sensation he could only describe as peace. Tears tried to creep out and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The tears stayed inside but from the darkness appeared a small yellow light which slowly grew and grew, till most of the blackness was gone. He hadn't seen this yellow before but it looked quite nice - sort of like the peace feeling he had in his tummy. He kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, while the pressure from his tears died down, and then opened them with a small feeling of regret.
"It's actually quite nice in there," he said, a little embarrassed at the words he uttered.
"The light's always in there," said Peter. "We just choose to black it out for some reason."
"Probably fear," said Tony quickly, surprising himself with his words. Then he wondered how Peter knew what he had seen.
"Probably because it's what I've seen so many times."
Just then the bell rang and, with a sigh of relief, Tony leapt up to go - he'd had about as much of this soft stuff as he could stand. He did wait, though, for Peter to get up. As they walked back to the classroom, Tony realized his arm was around Peter's shoulders. He said "thanks", as a tear escaped from his eye.
"So what are you doing after school?" asked Tony.
"Probably walking home with you," said Peter, with a smile.
More tears leaked from Tony's eyes as they walked into the classroom. Everyone wondered how soft Peter could bring the school bully to tears and he became a bit of a hero. For the first time in his life, Tony couldn't give a damn. And it felt good.
##########
The Soft Man
There was a soft man in a hard country - a country of sand, searing heat and tough people. This soft man was not so tough. He could not work as hard as the other sweating farmers, strong millers or wily thieves. He could not be a policeman as he was not as tough on the thieves as he should be. He could not work in the banks or in law firms as he did not like being tough on his customers.
He tried or considered each of the forty-seven prescribed occupations for men in this tough land and found that he could not fit into any of them. So he became a man without an occupation and that meant being a man without support. He had no way to earn the money to acquire the house, the car, the swimming pool, the wife or the other Things that made a man feel important - the Things that everybody always got but envied before they were got. This envy of those who had, created status and made the havers feel important.
This soft man could feel no envy as he really did not want any of those Things. The Things he yearned for (and he yearned for them with a vengeance) were Things on the Inside - love, peace, self-esteem, happiness, nature, friends and a daily chat with his God. It seemed to him that these Inside Things still took a lot of effort to obtain but, once obtained, they could never be taken away or ruined by others. You didn't have burglars or enemies stealing or damaging these sort of Things. You didn't need insurance or security alarm to protect your security. And your security was extremely portable.
There was just one draw-back though - you couldn't use your security as an excuse to get out of things you disliked:
"I cannot go to the football, Joe, as I have to paint the house." Or
"I can't take you children to the park this afternoon because I have to clean the pool" or the car or fix the toilet or the gate or whatever else comes to mind.
If your security is only Inside Things then you have no excuses and you are forced to be honest. You have to say things like:
"I won't go to the football, Joe, as I do not like watching it." Or
"I will not take you children to the park this afternoon as I need a little time to myself."
And far from being upset, Joe or the children or whoever, didn't feel upset as they liked honesty more than they liked football or the park or whatever. They always knew if someone was lying to them or not. They knew that the soft man was always honest and they loved him for it.
It was quite hard for him to be honest at first but, as he practised, he became better. He had more practice than others as he had no excuses. The better at honesty he became, the more loved he became and that made him feel better because love was one of the Things he yearned for with a vengeance. And that love meant friends and he yearned for them, too, with a vengeance.
The other reason he became terribly honest was that he had no occupation. He had never been trained how to think and, therefore, had to work things out for himself. If he didn't know the answer to something he would look people in the eye and say:
"I don't know, but I will find out." Because he didn't know much he ended up finding out a lot. Because he found out a lot, people would ask him many things and he would look them in the eye and say:
"I don't know, but I will find out." And the more he said he didn't know (about every subject imaginable) the more people respected his great knowledge.
Learning many things (including things about himself) gave him self-esteem and being able to pass on that knowledge to others made him happy. Self-esteem and happiness were two Things he yearned for with a vengeance.
Because he had no occupation he was able to spend much time with nature - under trees, with animals and birds, by rivers, in the rain - and it was very peaceful.
Without even planning for it, the Things he had wanted with a vengeance started turning up. Sometimes he didn't realise he had the Things he wanted until some time after he had had them. It was nice though.
The other funny thing was that the Outside Things also started turning up. Because he was honest, shopkeepers would ask him to mind their shops and would then give him food clothes and other Things as a "thankyou". Because of his search for knowledge, many people would come to him for advice or training on things - especially Inside Things. There were so few teachers of the Inside Things and everybody needs to know about their Insides. And so he would get money and other Things for doing that and other things.
Many people would tell him of their personal problems because he was so honest that he would never tell anyone else about it. As a good listener he would help them solve their own problems. For that, too, many would thank him with Outside Things and he became quite wealthy.
So, what is the moral of this little story? The soft man doesn't really know for he doesn't know what it is like to have your mind changed, by someone else, for an occupation. Also, he doesn't know what it is like to want what other people have. What he has, cannot be taken from him and his mind is at rest.
And he wishes the same for you.
##########
The Hard Man
Some time ago a Hard Man came to town. He was tall and broad and his shoulders swayed as he walked. He looked grim and there seemed to be sharp edges to all his features - like a lump of rock on the move.
He asked for a beer and his huge rugged hand slapped the coins on the bar. Without looking at anyone he settled on the stool as if he owned it - one elbow on the bar and the other hand on his hip. Some people you just don't look in the eye and this Hard Man was one. So they didn't look and he didn't look - except when one thought the other wasn't. Conversation sort of went back to normal but every movement of the Hard Man attracted furtive nervous looks, like a frightened dog watching his master's whip hand.
"So how y'all today?" came the cherry voice of Idiot Ivan, as he burst in through the bar door, talking to everyone and no-one in particular. Ivan was a bit soft as he acknowledged everyone he came across and was always smiling. He never complained and always said nice things - lived in complete dream-land, really.
"You new in town?" Ivan asked, oblivious to the Hard Man's menacing look. "My name's Ivan. Welcome to our little town. Not big, but it's small and friendly. Yeah, real friendly folks live here. Ask anyone. Friendly and nice. And hot. A drink'd be good. What you're drinking mister? My round. Two more of what he's having, thanks Tom."
The nattering went on without the hard Man having to say a thing and he learned a lot about the town. The other drinkers sniggered into their drinks, felt embarrassed and thought thoughts of Ivan. Like, "fancy just walking up to a complete stranger and making a fool of yourself like that." "Wonder how he can find so much to say." "No wonder they say he's soft in the head." "The new bloke will probably clobber him soon, going on like that." "Must feel a right twit being bombarded with that drivel." And other thoughts like that.
The Hard Man's grim face had softened but he wasn't up to smiling yet - Hard Men don't do that. He was hearing what Ivan was saying but pretending not to listen. And the bloody beer. He was going to have to say thanks or something for that soon.
And soon the beers did turn up. The Hard Man's mind was in a turmoil. He was now indebted to someone he didn't know and was going to have to say something soft like "thanks". How embarrassing. The alternative would have been to say "no" to the beer but you can't do that if you're hard - doesn't look good. He's not a bad bloke, really, this Ivan. Vaccinated with a gramophone needle, but honest and friendly. Couldn't say that to him though. Not stuff like that. "Yea, thanks mate" will do, and leave it at that.
"That's really kind of you, thanks very much," burst out of his mouth unexpectedly in a voice as deep as the Titanic. The shock of letting those words out fairly unnerved him but he went on. "Just thought I might stop for a few days to see what the place is like. If it's alright, I might stay on. Do you know a good place to bunk down?"
This bloody Ivan seemed to have a way of dragging stuff out of you. No one is supposed to know anything about me - ruins the mystery. Anyway, they both got yarning over a couple more beers (with the conflict between the Hard Man's brain and mouth still going on) and they ended up leaving together, with the odd smile breaking out. The Hard Man wasn't keen for anyone to know it, but he ended up staying with Ivan, who lived on his own. In fact, he ended up staying a lot longer than he intended.
There was something about this Ivan bloke, this soft headed, friendly chatter-box that was different. And staying with him made you feel different - softer, quieter. This Ivan just didn't seem to mind whether his visitor was quiet or noisy and he really wasn't scared or awed by him being a Hard Man like other people were. Ivan seemed to see something beyond what others saw on the outside and didn't seem to care whether people were tough, stupid, big, small, kind or nasty. They were all the same to him. Even when people said horrible things to him he still treated them the same - with a smile and a kind, happy word. He didn't seen to feel any need to fight back or prove a point. A queer sort, really. You couldn't help but like the bloke, in spite of his funny ways.
Without even knowing it, the Hard Man began to soften around the edges - less wrinkles, quieter tread and less angry thoughts. He was still determined to keep up his hardness. He had got used to the effect it had on people - a bit of fear, a bit of awe - and he wasn't going to lose that. However, no matter how hard he tried, the softness still crept in uninvited and unexpected at times. He might smile or pat Ivan on the shoulder or say something nice about a tree or an animal. Then, realising what he had done, would blush, curse inwardly and put the hard mask back on. Those times were bloody annoying and seemed to be getting worse. A bit of a worry.
As it happened, Ivan was able to find him a job. Not the physical sort of job he was used to but it wasn't going to be for long. Apart from being soft sort of work, being a storeman meant that he had to be different with strangers. Sort of ... well ... nice. If you told a customer to bugger off they did and you lost your job. Not good all round.
The thought of having to be nice to strangers and smile at them scared the hell out of him. But after a bit of practice - partly with Ivan - he was amazed at how easy it was. More amazing was peoples' reactions. When you were nice to them they were nice back. They acted as if .... well .... they wanted to be your friend. Funny things, people. Then they would want to tell you all sorts of personal things about their families, jobs and interests and so on. The Hard Man got very embarrassed at some of this and would be busy, head down, writing an invoice or something. He would grunt every now and then, not knowing what to do or what to say.
Watching Ivan helped and he would practice doing what Ivan did and then it would get worse because they would ask him questions about himself or even, once or twice, they would invite him around for a cup of tea. No-one had ever been interested in what the Hard Man did or thought and, certainly, no-one ever had invited him to their house. It all became pretty damned confusing and scary.
He kept intending to look for a proper job but never quite got around to it. After about a year he thought, "Bugger it, I'll go and visit someone. Can't be that scary."
So, the next invitation he got, he accepted. He took Ivan along to help with the conversation - don't want to run out, you know. He spent hours patting his hair and checking his finger-nails and then (with his stomach in his throat) took Ivan along. Or did Ivan take him?
He somehow survived and sort of enjoyed it. Bit scary though. The next few times he took Ivan (Ivan needed the company) and then he finally plucked up the courage to go it alone. Whew, this was tougher than being tough.
He eventually reckoned he was quite good at this social stuff and made a few friends. Just when he thought it was starting to get easy, bang! Another bombshell. He was asked to be a representative for the company. You know - travelling around, sorting out problems, keeping up supplies and meeting more strangers. But Hard Men don't say "no", so he went out with another representative for two weeks and was then left on his own. Actually, thinking about it was worse than doing it. The new strangers were all like the old ones. You be friendly and smile and they do the same back.
To cut a long story short, he did very well at that job and got other promotions later on. He even started meeting women and that was .... well .... terrifying. Change of underwear every ten minutes. Anyway, he learned how to cope and even ended up getting married and having a family.
Obviously, he had left Ivan's house a while back but they were always the best of friends.
Then one day the Hard Man left town. Only, this Hard Man was weightless and invisible. The body he walked out of then went back to its original name, Peter.
The funny thing was that Peter, who had kept the Hard Man around him for protection, found that after the Hard Man had left, he felt more secure than ever before.
##########
Little Bear
Reining in his sweating pony at the edge of the cliff, Little Bear surveyed the massive plain below, with the meandering river quietly flowing through it. He smiled at the sight of the huge herd of bison, as they contentedly grazed the long, brown grass. The sun beat down on his young body and he breathed in the heat and savoured the clear, blue sky as his pony dropped its head to munch on the scattered tufts of the stringy rock-grass. This sight and feeling he had experienced many times before and the aloneness in this wide and quiet place never failed to give him that special feeling, the feeling of complete insignificance and greatness. He was but a speck in this magnificent landscape and yet he was a part of the grandeur of it all.
He could feel his heart become the openness of the plain, touching and nurturing all who came to him. He could become the bison and that quiet strength filled him with a peace he got from nowhere else. He became the hard, craggy cliffs, the softly waving grass and the lazily wandering river. He felt the giving and receiving of so much abundance from this huge space and he was all of it, and in awe of it from his small body astride the pony atop the cliff. An eagle soared along the cliff edge, passing within two wingspans, and he felt as that eagle - powerful, alert and relaxed - to see the whole world at a glance and every minute detail in it at the same time. He needed nobody, nothing, for he was all there was. He needed no talking, singing or chanting, for the silence spoke to him louder than any other sound he knew.
He dismounted from his pony and walked away from the sound of its munching and in that deafening silence he became all of the answers he ever needed. He had no question, this time, and simply listened to the wisdom on the wind. As he listened he began to feel uneasy. In the past, the silence had always given him hope and cleared any confusion around him. The stories he heard from the silence that he could share with the tribe (those that weren't too personal) were always listened to and acted on by the elders, for they respected the wisdom of that silence and the purity of Little Bear's retelling. It might tell of freezing winters or dry summers, but it always gave a way of dealing with them.
This time, though, there was no helpful advice but only the story of when another tribe of paler skins came to this land - the land his tribe nurtured, revered and loved. This story could have been of a distant past or a far off future, he knew not when, but he knew he should listen, despite his wanting to shut it out of his mind. As he tried to relax and listen, he saw, in his mind, the valley covered with the carcasses of hundreds of dead bison and through it galloped men with sticks that spoke loudly as the bison fell. A straight line was drawn through the valley, with many men sweating along it. Then a strange box rolled along this line, carrying many more people who got out at different places and hammered wooden pegs into the ground. Wooden tents emerged from the ground, some surrounded by large wooden fences, and as they grew and multiplied, the surrounding forest shrank. Rings of sticks and shiny rope covered the land and new animals, smaller than bison, were kept in them and chased around by this new tribe. The grass withered and died, as did the river and its fish.
Then he heard much shouting and argument in a language that wasn't his own. An anger he wasn't used to, filled his shaking body. He wanted the silence to stop its story but it carried on relentlessly. His respect for the silence made him stay and listen. He also waited for some hope, some reason for the story and the good that would come of it. But no good came, just more confusing pictures.
This anger, he could see, spread across the wide land like wildfire, as fast as the dust storms whipped up the soil where the grass and trees had been. And, before this anger, this strength without a soul, he saw people, his people, running from burning tents, from frightened and dying people and horses. He felt he could take no more and the silence finished its story, became silent.
As he crouched on the ground, head in hands, he asked for a sign or reason for the story. He lifted his head to the horizon and saw the far edge of the bison herd begin to move toward him. At first he couldn't see them but soon he saw men and horses chasing the bison. He couldn't see the talking sticks but soon heard their loudness and saw falling bison. With a startling realization he knew the story wasn't of another time but this one. Rooted to the spot, paralyzed, he suddenly felt very alone. Forcing his body to respond, he ran to his pony, leapt on and raced back to his tribe.
His grandfather, Old Turtle, was waiting for him on the hill above the tepees which were nestled in the valley below. Little Bear stopped the pony, dismounted and stood before the old man, unable to speak.
"So the time of change has come?" asked his Grandfather. This old man just seemed to know things and Little Bear knew he didn't have to say anything.
"Who are these people? Why do they kill so many bison? Why is the forest going to die? What have we done wrong? Wha…"
"So many questions," interrupted the old man, smiling sadly. "Just as summer turns to autumn, so the wheel of life continues to turn. The season of Man now moves into winter where much must die, to be reborn for the spring to come."
"But we may be chased from this land, we may be killed and our ways gone forever," stammered Little Bear.
"Our ways will never be gone. Our ways are part of this land and the land remembers," said Old Turtle. "When it is time for our ways to return, when the Spring of Man is upon us, the land will remind those here of our ways. The memory of everything you do and think is kept by the Stone People and all we ever need to do is pick up a rock and ask for the remembering. Never fear, nothing is lost."
"But their strength is without soul and it burns everything before it. Nothing is left to carry on," said Little Bear, feeling desperate.
"They have come to this abundant land to learn of the abundance of their souls," counselled Old Turtle. "They do not know of Great Spirit or anything beyond what they see. Not until they have lost all that they can see, will they see those things not seen by the eye. That is their lesson. It will not be an easy one for them and it will also be a time of hardship for us. Great Spirit is asking us how strongly we are able to hold to all that we have learned and we will have many tests."
"There must be a better way to learn these things - something more gentle?" asked the young boy, fearful of the losses that could be.
"For some, there is no other way," said the old man, with a sigh. "Some listen and learn while others believe they know better than Great Spirit. They have to make their own mistakes to learn another way."
"But they're destroying our Mother Earth and all the nourishment she gives us," implored Little Bear. "There will be nothing left for any of us."
"They will learn, they must learn, that after trying to bend and shape Nature, it is really Nature that is bending and shaping them," said the old man, quietly. "That is their lesson."
"And ours is to hold our truth?"
"Yes. We will also learn much from them. There is much we will not like but they think with their heads while we think with our hearts. There is always a balance and their head-thinking will bring much advancement to this land. There will be imbalance and then there will be balance. We will think a little more with our heads and use their advancements while they will start to think with their hearts. That place between our heart and our head is our throat, from which will come a better balance of communication."
"Hmm," said the young man, wondering why people weren't born with that perfect balance.
"Then we wouldn't have anything to learn!" exclaimed Old Turtle, as if reading his thoughts.
Little Bear was quiet - there seemed to be so much to learn.
"What we have talked of," said the old man seriously, "will not be understood by many of our people, and messengers of bad news are not always treated kindly. Would you like me to tell the others of these things to come?"
"Yes please," said Little Bear, with a sigh.
"You have not reached manhood but you are very wise in the ways of men. That wisdom will serve many. It is time for you to go to the place of the Dream People. You know where that is for we have talked of it before."
"Yes," said Little Bear, with a shudder, for he now knew there were great changes ahead for him.
And so the wisdom, the somehow knowing, of an old man saved the life of a young man, as the old man walked down to a certain doom - a doom he had dreamed of several times and was now destined to live in fleshly reality.
Little Bear rode off with a mind closed to any thoughts that might pass. During the hour-long ride he simply thought with his outer senses, enjoying the beauty of the land. In a sheltered and verdant valley he prepared a makeshift stockade for his pony and then made the two hour climb to the cliff-top without pause. He stopped for a moment to survey the world, took off his simple weapons and waterbag and then sat upon the flat rock in a pose he wouldn't move from for four days. He closed his eyes and, as his breathing subsided, the Dream People told him stories of things to come.
Many of their stories were of a smiling and weathered old man with a gentle old lady, surrounded by children and people of many colours. A deep wisdom and compassion emanated from this white-haired couple and they drew in many seeking solace and understanding of their oft-troubled times.
Many of their stories, however, were not so peaceful and with a stoic heart and an unmoving body he observed horrific scenes of burning villages, terrified and bloodied people, killings, starvation, torture and the great loneliness for a young man.
Every so often his body would reach for water but, apart from that, there was no movement from Little Bear as the sun burned his skin, the wind blasted it with sand and the night chilled him to the bone. In stillness, he knew, was the only key to the door of his knowing - the door to his wisdom and survival in a new and tempestuous world. A different person could well have gone insane, but as the Dream People played out their scenes before him he simply observed, without attachment or emotion. To have done otherwise would have meant a lessening of the potential of that which he had to give to his Mother - his Mother Earth and her children.
As the eagles soared above and the squirrels scampered below, this solitary statue of a young man observed scenes of a life yet to be - scenes of horror, fear, loneliness, joy, peace and wisdom - which played before his mind with apparent randomness. And, in spite of the pains that coursed through his body, he stayed alert to the Dream People's gifts of prophecy, somehow knowing the timing of events. Even as a particularly gruesome scene in which he could smell burning flesh, hear screams of terror and see familiar faces, played before his eyes, he remained observant, passive and still. He knew he could do nothing to change events of that moment and that his destiny was now written in a different book from that of his people. Their book had now been completed, shut forever. His new book was just being opened.
The cry of an eagle told of the end of his stillness and with a renewed awareness of his physical world, his body cried mightily in pain. Dehydrated, blistered and with pain in every fibre of his being, he knew not how to begin movement, for even the thought of movement brought spasms of pain. But move he must and from twitch to quiver to movement he brought his exhausted body to kneeling and then to a swaying, standing pose, like a new-born pony, altogether surprised to be up and uncertain of staying there. Then, he bent slowly to retrieve his weapons and waterbag.
"Now, walking," he thought, "Can I do it?" His answer came soon enough as he crashed to the ground and, with jagged flint piercing his body, he rolled haphazardly down the slope. Stopped by a thud into a sapling, he lay panting, bloody and confused, with his tools of survival scattered above. With a determination he hadn't known before, he rose, supported by the sapling, and slowly recovered his meagre possessions.
It took a day of tumbling, recovering and staggering, with trees and rocks claiming parts of his flesh, to reach his pony and the soft green velvet bed of grass. He freed his pony and lay down to sleep.
The sun woke him with a sight he hadn't seen before - his pony was kneeling beside him as if to say, "Get on, I'll carry you now." Obediently he crawled onto its back. It stood up, walked into a nearby stream and tipped him into the water. The freezing mountain stream quickly revived him and he gulped water and floated, with the numbness taking away the pain. He floated to the edge of the stream and picked some overhanging fruit, then rested on the bank. With the restoring of his energy came the pain again. But, with the determination of a young man possessed, he walked back for his waterbag and refilled it from the stream. Now, girded with all his worldly possessions, he mounted his pony from the top of a tree stump and rode towards home.
Out of the forest the sun burned his already blistered body but he knew he must go on. Some time before reaching his village he sensed that he could smell smoke and as he rode over the little hill above his home he saw why. There was nothing left but burned remains and scattered bodies. He slid from his pony and sat and looked and remembered every happy second of his life in that place. For the first time in four days he allowed his feelings to rise as he stared at the ashes that had been his home. The pain in his belly rose and he simply sat as a few tears fell. He couldn't hold the pain in any more and the tears flooded forth as he cried out in anguish. And the pain and the crying wouldn't stop as he yelled to the Great Spirit in anger and confusion. Late the next day he collapsed, curled up and was silent till the morning. The pain was no less but the tears had run dry and he slowly stood up.
He would never forget the pain or the memories and, from the ashes before him, he became a man that day. He did not know he had become a man that day but as Great Bear looked back from a later time, he knew that that was the moment of his becoming a man. A very sad man. A very lonely man. A very strong man. A very wise man. But not a bitter man.
His destiny had been laid before him and he determined to realise it to its fullest. He saw, in those ashes, the fear of people, the powerlessness of people. In an instant he knew that destruction of this kind could only come from people who did not believe in their power, who did not know of their power. In that same instant he knew that he could help create peace and abundance by helping people know of their power and destiny and to help them rise above their feelings of fear and powerlessness. He knew not how to do this thing, but he knew that he could do it.
And so he came to realise the beautiful scenes he had seen, with a beautiful companion, a more peaceful and creative human race and a more contented Mother.
##########
The Silence
Sitting by the sea is a lonely experience - an experience of the smooth grey sand stretching and curving for miles away on either side, an experience of the wet black rocks buffeted by the waves forever in time, an experience of the swaying desolate sea stretching beyond the horizon and an experience of the sky, only blue nothingness, forever in space. Expanses of flat blue and grey with rugged lumps of black. Forever stillness beyond vision and time. I seem to be the only being on this planet - not a footprint, a voice or a being to break the monotony of the flat unending nothingness.
So, what's the point of my being? Just to be amid this world of nothingness. No food from the sand or water from the sea to nourish me. No sounds to stimulate, no sights to invigorate, no sensations to excite. Nothingness and emptiness.
Then from that sad and heavy question come a thousand answers. From where I know not for no one is there to speak but speak they do, in compassionate, loving and knowing tones.
"So there is someone here?" I wonder.
"There is always someone here," they say. "In every lonely place and every quiet space there are more around to help than in the busy streets and noisy parties."
"How can there be someone, anyone, here with all of this nothingness?" I wonder to myself.
"It is from the nothingness that everything is," comes the reply, firm and smiling, somehow. "Nothing is everything," they continue, "for in nothingness is nothing but the Self. And in the silence of the Self is everything there is."
"In the silence of myself ….." I muse. "Perhaps I had not stopped the noise to hear the silence of myself before."
"And why haven't you turned off the noise before?" they ask gently.
"Perhaps I have just been too busy," I answer.
"Or too afraid?" they ask.
"Afraid?" I wonder, disquieted. "Afraid of what?"
"Afraid of yourself," they answer. "Afraid of your silence, your nothingness."
My mind stops, goes blank. For a second that lasts forever I have no answer, no question, no thought at all. The stillness continues until I feel awkward and have to intrude.
"Why should I be afraid of the silence? It's not scary," I challenge.
"Then why did you have to move from it to ask that question?" they ask.
"How can I answer their question," I wonder, searching for answers. My mind goes blank and quiet. And peaceful. This stillness is new to me - new, nice but a little … scary. Perhaps they are right.
"Why would I be afraid of this peaceful silence?" I ask myself.
They do not reply.